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So he’d understood everything, after all. She so desperately wished she could tell him that he was right, that she’d loved him all along. But the necklace she wore was burning, as if on fire.
“I knew that was you from the beginning. Of course I did. I know where Dehua is. I sent her and Sam to look after Schuyler. I wanted to have this conversation in private, but of course Deming is a bit impulsive, and now everyone knows. I had to let them take you.”
Mimi shrugged.
“Why are you here, Mimi? Does it mean what I hope it means? That you’ve returned to us—to me?”
“Never,” she said. “Why would I ever settle for you when Jack is waiting for me?” She wanted to make him angry, angry enough to fight. She could goad him into it, use that male vanity against him.
“Jack isn’t waiting for you, and we both know it,” Kingsley said. “So what’s your game? Why are you here?”
“I’m here for you.” She leaned back in the chair and thrust her leg forward, kicking Kingsley’s knee as hard as she could. He buckled, and she was able to get past him and unsheathe her sword. “A fight to the finish, isn’t that what you said?” She swung hard, with the goal of inflicting some sort of flesh wound, enough to get Kingsley riled up.
He was quick, though, and he darted out of the way before her sword could reach him. His weapon was in his hand before she saw him retrieve it, but she was quick too—she parried his thrust, and the metal swords made a clanging sound that echoed in the room.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he said as they sparred.
“This is the only way it can end,” she said. “And it needs to end. You should have killed me when you had the chance.”
“I could say the same for you,” he said.
They fought like the equals they had always been, blocking each other’s jabs, ducking each other’s blows. As always, Mimi was amazed at how well matched they were. She didn’t have to think about whether she wanted to win this fight; it was all she could do to maintain her ground.
And then, all of a sudden, she couldn’t maintain it anymore. Kingsley had forced her up against the bookshelves, and though she’d scaled one of the ladders to get away from him, he’d used his sword to slice through the stair on which she stood, which sent her tumbling to the ground.
Kingsley stood over her, his sword pointed at her throat. “I’m going to give you one last chance,” he said. “I don’t want to have to kill you. But I can’t have you jeopardizing everything we stand for. Lucifer cannot return to Heaven. I won’t permit it. Say something, anything, so I don’t have to do this. Please.”
But Mimi remained silent.
FORTY-FOUR
Tomasia (Florence, 1452)
omi woke up exhausted in her own bedroom. From the window, she could see the red roofs of the city, the sunlight dappling on the terra-cotta. Why did her body ache so? Last she remembered, she had been up late into the night, working on her sculpture. But when she looked at it, it seemed unfamiliar. Who were these people—the woman on the ground and the two men standing above her?
She was cold and trembling, and her body ached with sorrow. What had happened? Why couldn’t she remember?
Where was Andreas?
The last thing she remembered was chasing a Silver Blood on those same roofs, jumping from house to house until they had caught up with him on the top of Brunelleschi’s unfinished dome. The hooded stranger who had carried Lucifer’s mark.
“Did I fall? Is that why everything hurts so much?” she asked.
“Yes.” Andreas nodded. “The Croatan hit you with a blood spell. Ludivivo and I h
ave worked long and hard to keep you here with us in this cycle.”
“A blood spell! How long have I been asleep?”
He told her, and she could not believe it. So many months. But there was no reason for Andreas to lie to her. He came to sit by her bed and rested his head on her shoulder.
She pulled him to her. “They are growing in strength, our enemies.”
“Yes,” he murmured.
“Do not be troubled, my love. I am whole.” She looked down at his dark head, expecting to feel the usual surge of affection that came over her every time she saw him. But something felt different. She felt…empty. Numb. She pushed the sculpture away from the bed.
“Displeased with your work?” He stood up from her embrace. “Why don’t you lie down, and I’ll fetch you a cool jug of water. You aren’t well. You’re still healing.”
